


quiet hours

by brokentombstone



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, F/M, Heavy Angst, Jon Snow is King-Beyond-the-Wall, Post-Canon, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23541760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokentombstone/pseuds/brokentombstone
Summary: "I told you the North lost their King, Jon. You. We lost you. And you never tried to rectify that. I thought maybe if I gave you time… I don’t know what I thought Jon. I know you never so much as sent a letter."--Or;Jon and Sansa. All the ways they hurt each other because they love each other and those things seem to go hand in hand. The Starks are not as whole as they once were, and they probably never will be.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 18
Kudos: 92





	quiet hours

**Author's Note:**

> Well here I am, back with a oneshot that came to me from an errant thought I had regarding how tragic and lonely Sansa's ending is. I hope you enjoy this, it's angsty but cathartic imo. Please comment if you like this!

The wine was bitter but slid down her throat with ease anyways. She didn’t feel like she noticed such things anymore. It had been a long time since she had been preoccupied with something so trivial like poor tasting wine. What was the point? And she needed the wine to deal with the lords tonight. The Umbers and the Karstarks were feuding about supply allocation for the tenth time and Sansa couldn’t quite find herself to care. If that made her a poor Queen than so be it, she had resolved this five times over and she wasn’t interested in such petty disputes when the North was thriving. She did everything a Queen was supposed to, and more importantly she did love her people. She lived for them. But this particular night, the discussion had exhausted her. 

When she pushed back her chair and rose up the room quieted. 

“I think that is enough discussion for one night, we will only talk ourselves in circles. We can discuss alternatives in the morning if you still wish. Sleep on it,” Sansa said wearily. 

Before she could gauge the reaction to her abrupt departure she was out of the room and in the hall, gasping for air as she heard the murmurs of “Your Grace” carrying from behind the closed door. 

All at once she feels like she is suffocating, her brain feels like it’s leaving her body and that it’s floating away. It takes all her control to not fall to pieces and just focus on her rapidly increasing breath. Indescribable panic. And for nothing. Seven damn years. It shouldn’t bother her but it has. 

Sansa works on calming herself down, grateful that the talks went late enough that nobody is in the corridor. She instead decides to focus on the moonlight cresting in and dancing across the floor a few feet in front of her where a window lets in the night. The pattern creates a shimmering glow that distracts her, reminds her of the magic of the North, the old Gods and the wonder there. How had they lost that? 

She closes her eyes for a moment, collects herself once more and marches on towards her chambers. If she can just make it there she can even cry if she wishes. Not that she wants to reach that point, but perhaps it will come to that. 

Unfortunately, her feet have different plans. As a girl, her parents had helped her navigate Winterfell’s labyrinth like halls, explaining to her the ins and outs of the castle. But now, years later, while she doesn’t risk being lost, she can wind up somewhere she didn’t intend to if not paying attention. Tonight, the consequences of that misfortune are too much for her, so when she realizes she is outside his old chamber she allows herself to collapse against the wall next to the door frame. 

It’s a dark and disused part of the castle. Her people seeming to take in her own mood about the place and gradually drifting away from it. In the early days she had made clear that the room wasn’t to be altered, that it was his alone and they were to keep it for his eventual return. She had left explicit instructions that it was to be cleaned at regular intervals, same as the rest of the castle. And now, years later, she knew that had stuck. Even if she hadn’t checked on the room in ages, not giving into that particular temptation. She knew the staff would abide by her wishes even if he never returned. 

And wasn’t that a morbid thought. But also probably closer to accurate than what Sansa wished. It’s been seven years. Why should she expect anything to change now? Anything else was simple wishful thinking that she couldn’t afford to entertain. 

But it’s dark and late. And she is achingly alone. That fact envelopes her too quick, making her knees wobble. Queen in the North, safe in her childhood home. Why does that fact leave her so hollow though? As hard as she had fought to get back to this place and the aftermath had only slapped her in the face that home was no place, no, home was people, a person. And without that what was the rest?

With that thought she caves. Places her hand on the cool doorknob and turns it. It’s unlocked, of course, there’s no reason it wouldn’t be but the realization stills her for a moment. And then she is throwing open the door in one swift motion and taking in the room. 

Nonsensically, her first thought is that it’s been cleaned recently. Even in the dark she can tell the surfaces still have a shine and that a smell of freshness lingers. Her second thought is that the room, like her, is empty. So empty. It’s almost silly she realizes now, to have it kept after all this time. There’s no sense of him here. No visible imprint left behind. Just her own memories to fill in the space and a few pieces of furniture that could be better used elsewhere. 

The door slams shut behind her suddenly and she jumps, scared for a moment but then ridiculously hopeful that someone will be there when she turns around. Of course, nobody is. 

And then before Sansa can help herself she is doing the worst thing she could, given the circumstances. Unwillingly, her eyes find the chest at the end of the bed. She knows what’s inside and that the implication of opening and seeing it for herself is dangerous. That it is unnecessary pain she will endure. But she’s kneeling before the chest before she even realizes what she’s doing. 

Her hands hesitate though. Her mind screams at her to open it, to see for herself, but her hands seek out the small engraving. Two direwolves, heads bent together. In the dark you can’t tell if they’re facing off with growls, or leaning in to kiss. Ironic, she thinks to herself. The dark always did hide intention, from what she recalls. Blurred boundaries and mixed messages in the flickering firelight of a damp and dreary room… or tent, she muses. 

Her thumb brushes over the wolves one last time and then she’s pushing open the chest. Wincing at the creak it lets out into the night. And there it is. 

Inside the chest is the one thing that proves his existence, that he lived and breathed here in this room. The cloak that Sansa made him ages ago, in her euphoria of finding him at Castle Black. She had found it the first time in her first months returning to Winterfell and she had cried then, mourning the loss of many things. She thinks herself a completely new person from the one she was when her own fingers crafted this cloak. Her hands had worked with love and gratitude, determination and grit to fight for what was theirs. Sansa thinks if she made anything now it would be made with resentment and bitterness, her own weariness soaking into the stitches like it seems to bleed into the castle itself. 

She knows the feeling of instability has been growing all day. She had known vaguely that the day was not far off, the yearly reminder of his absence getting harder to hold every year, not easier. The gaping wound in her chest threatening to split her in half instead of healing over into a seldom thought of scar. And this morning over breakfast she had realized with certainty that it was seven years to the day since they had departed at the docks of King’s Landing, never to see each other again.

It hadn’t been obvious to her then. Her mind had still held hope, that he needed time, that he needed distance, that he would come back when he was ready. He had never said the words, no, but she had thought she knew him well enough to read him. She had been mistaken. She had been mistaken about many things, but none seemed to hurt her more than this. To keep her up late into the night like this mistake. If she had begged him to come with her that day would things be different now?

That question is again too much and Sansa seemed to be out of her body completely tonight. So when she takes the cloak in her arms, pressing it to her nose for one brief second, in hopes of a long forgotten scent, and wraps it around her own shoulders she knows she is going to regret these actions come morning, but also cannot find it in herself to stop. She’ll blame the wine.

And she’s standing up, walking over around the side of the bed and collapsing before she has a chance to think about what it all means. 

And that’s how they find her the next morning. In a heap on the bed, bleary eyed and clearly a bit hungover, wrapped up in Jon Snow’s cloak, in his old chambers. 

~~~

The aftermath of that morning is not pretty. From what she gathers, her serving maid who tends her fires came in early to light a fire and didn’t notice Sansa wasn’t in her bed, the curtains pulled tight as she had left them in the morning. It wasn’t until hours later when her other maids came in, thinking the Queen had overslept as she had not yet been seen, that they realized she was missing. 

This had somehow sent the rest of the castle on a desperate search for her, everyone fearing the worst. They turned the castle inside out before one of the kitchen staff happened upon Jon Snow’s old chambers and found their Queen cuddled up in his old cloak. Still dressed in her gown from the night before and hair disheveled out of its braids. Looking peaceful as ever.

When Sansa had realized what had happened, she had nearly flown out of the room. Throwing the cloak off her as if it burned at the touch (it did a little bit) and stormed off to her own chambers with a steady glare at anyone who dared to gawk, and the whole castle was gawking by then. 

By the time Sansa had readied herself enough to show her face she had discovered that the Umbers and Karstarks had miraculously solved their dispute and were both making to leave, mind you two days prior to their intended departure. The fact did not go unnoticed, but at least her mortification had brought some resolution, she didn’t have to listen to the argument any longer. 

The whole event had perhaps been her most un-Queenly. She had barely spoken to anyone in days after it happened. Deciding to instead pretend that the entire event had never happened. It had been weeks before she had worked up the nerve to go back to his room and check that someone had cleaned up the destruction she had left in her haste to flee. They had. And she had left as quickly as possible, nearly sprinting to the other side of the castle, lest someone find her back there. 

The intervening months had passed slowly, but that was nothing new. However that night did seem to bring its own new set of gossip with it. She didn’t know when she had taken to listening at doors but with no master of spies she had taken it on herself to hear the castle talk firsthand. 

A week after the event she had stood outside the kitchen in the hallway. 

“She needs to marry, to secure an heir for the North. We serve our Queen, but her reign is threatened without one,” An older man who had worked in the kitchen for ages due to his poor health said. 

“The Queen won’t marry, she has rejected any proposal that comes her way. Even the Martell lad couldn’t secure her hand. And the proposals have dropped off in the last two years, her stance is clear,” A woman, Alyssa, that Sansa admires. She is older, no husband or children, and she is devoutly loyal to the Starks, or just herself she supposes, the only one left. 

And then a third voice, it takes Sansa a moment but she recognizes it as a voice of a new washer they have taken on, a girl a few years younger than Sansa herself, “It’s obvious she loves him.” 

“Who?” She can almost hear the squint in Alyssa’s eyes despite not seeing the woman. 

“Jon Snow, the King beyond the Wall as they call him now. I was around in the early days when they took Winterfell back, my momma was one of the first back to work in the kitchens…” 

Sansa is halfway down the hall before the girl can finish. Her whole body is cold and feeling vaguely like she might retch. 

That was something she had kept shoved down for so long, and one night of recklessness, half the North would be run amok with rumours.

But she had been wrong. Sure she heard whispers, but by the time three months had passed the rumour had grown stale, there is only so much you can do when one party of your gossip hasn’t been seen in nearly a decade.

And the fact doesn’t escape her, that the seven intervening years are ages longer than she ever had with him. Lifetimes on lifetimes really. But she still thinks of the times with him as her best. And of course she knew that the North wanted her to marry, despite their love for her, they needed a child to feel secure. But she wouldn’t, she couldn’t do it. Her one failing as a Queen she supposed. 

But to hear the girl in the kitchens say it all so blatantly… she hadn’t known that she had been here back in the beginning. She often wished she had stayed for the remainder. What would she have said. For god's sakes, he was still her brother then. But the voice in the back of her head asks if they were ever brother and sister, really.

Before she can ponder that too deeply she casts it down and with it life goes on.

~~~

Nearly seven months after that night she receives a letter from Bran. It’s rare. The North has become mostly self-sufficient, any trade agreements set up long ago now and without need for renegotiation. She had learned that her brother did not write letters for social reasons, and she had only seen him once since she left King’s Landing that day on the docks. Two years in when they had signed official accords between the Kingdoms. They had met, strangely enough, at the Twins. 

It had not been unpleasant. But it had been odd. The Freys, all their male heirs taken out by Arya years ago, had thrived under the eldest woman not present at that night's events. So, yes, it was strange meeting in the place where their mother and brother were slaughtered, but Bran had insisted on neutral ground and somewhere equal distance between the two of them. And so it had been the Twins, but Sansa had wondered how neutral a place within the Six Kingdoms could be. She hadn’t protested though, trusting her brother enough for this. 

And now, strangely enough, the letter that Bran sent, seems nothing more than a social call. There are all the pleasantries one would expect, if not a bit distant for being her brother but he inquires after her health, her Kingdom’s prosperity, and proposes coming to visit the North in an unspecified future, when “the time is right”. 

It’s that part that sticks her. She doesn’t know what he is referring to or why he insists on being cryptic. It’s frustrating enough that she nearly tears up the letter in anger. The only family truly left to her, that she has any hope of seeing, and he behaves like this. Sansa feels tears prick at her eyes and she shoves the letter away. Deciding not to reply. Let Bran do as he will, he always seems to anyways so it probably hardly matters how she proceeds. 

~~~

Two days after the letter arrived, it happens. Sansa is tied too tightly into her corset. A fact she will remember because her breathing was only made more difficult by it when she is struggling to breathe herself. And in reality Sansa knows she is too thin. That she doesn’t take care of herself the way she should. That her bones jut out and her cheeks seem hollowed out. But food, bodily desire, seems just out of reach. So they keep tying her corsets tighter and she keeps taking in her dresses a little bit. 

She eats enough to survive. But not much more. That seems to be the crux recently, surviving one day to the next. Again, it’s her duty to her people, to the North, that keeps her alive. She thinks sometimes she wants more than this, that she wants to live, not just survive. That luxury was taken from her the day Daenerys Targaryen had burned a city to a crisp. (Maybe it was years before that, when she ventured to King’s Landing the first time, or when she married Ramsay Bolton, or when she jumped the wall with Theon Greyjoy, maybe it was seeing Jon at Castle Black that did it, or maybe it was him leaving to Dragonstone, but in her mind it was truly taken the day the city burnt). She thinks that despite this that maybe she does deserve not just a life but one worth living. What would it entail though? The thought burns her. 

And so when it happens Sansa is in her chambers. She had just left her mid-afternoon meaning and had maybe an hour to herself. A rare occurrence in her usually busy schedule. She had had a bath prepared and was just about to undress when the pounding at her door comes. 

Closing her eyes and letting out a long sigh she responds, not moving yet.

“Come in.”

The attendant is out of breath. She recognizes him, Rickson she thinks, a Northern name playing on her Grandfather’s own. He is young, maybe only nineteen and he appears startled to find himself in his Queen’s chambers, her bath ready and waiting.

He is panting as his eyes dart from the tub, to her and back again. 

“My Queen, my apologies, I was told to come immediately. At the gate—”

Sansa cuts across him then, the words ringing in her mind, recalling the same phrasing, ‘at the gate’. 

“What is it,” Sansa says. 

“Wildlings, you must come quick.”

~~~

All the way down to the courtyard her heart is pounding in her chest. She won’t even entertain the thought, exerts all her energy on pushing it down. Won’t get her hopes up, not even in the slightest. And so she focuses on the task at hand. She had asked Rickson no more and ordered him to let her go alone, she didn’t want him to tell her anymore. She needed to see. 

She opens the last door and emerges straight into the courtyard. There is too much familiarity, despite the obvious newness to the scene before her. She has lived through too many reunions, sees the same veins in all of them over and over to let it pass her by. 

Because there he is, her mind takes a minute to catch up with what her eyes are seeing as there is too much to take in. Her men have the group surrounded. Obviously waiting for her if their turning heads are any indication. And the group is small, not a threat. Five or six, she can’t tell for the crowd. 

But Tormund is on his feet, tall above the rest and she recognizes him instantly. She sees his lips move, makes to catch her attention but it’s as if her ears are ringing she doesn’t really hear anything at the moment. Because her eyes only spare Tormund one glance, confirm she doesn’t know any of the other wildlings and then it is all Jon. 

Jon. Alive and in front of her. And then her mind catches up and her face must twist with horror because she sees Tormund speaking faster, hears his voice rising but she still is unable to make out his meaning. 

Because if Jon is alive, it’s barely. 

He’s propped up on a horse. There seems to be bloodied bandages on multiple parts of him. She can tell even from a distance that his forehead is slick with sweat, fever no doubt, and she can tell that he is barely supporting his own weight, that someone has tied him right to the horse to keep him in place. 

For the briefest of moments their eyes meet. 

And Sansa feels the space of seven years, of all their lies, betrayals, and mistrusts, compress into the space of a singular moment. His eyes widen at the sight of her, forming perfect circles of surprise, but she can’t figure out who else he would’ve expected here at Winterfell, but maybe that’s not it, maybe it’s just her herself that is surprising. 

And she still hasn’t heard what Tormund is yelling about but it doesn’t matter because in the next moment Jon is falling unconscious, held in his saddle by the rope around him but fully drooping down. And Sansa is yelling, frantic but trying to remain firm.

“Help him! Get him to a maester immediately, spare nothing for him, whatever it takes! Tormund what happened?”

And she is the Queen again, everyone moving on her command as she beelines for Tormund, trusting her men to take care of Jon, despite her body yelling at her to follow him being taken inside. She knows this is where she is needed most, that getting this information is what can help Jon the most. 

~~~

Wolf attack, as it turns out. A bloody wolf attack that left Jon’s legs and torso torn to shreds. A broken rib and sprained foot not helping matters. He’d only survived because Tormund had arrived at the right moment, bow and arrow in hand, felling the beast. All this had been manageable. His injuries serious but nothing to worry about. Until infection had set in, his torso swelling, turning ugly shades of green and grey, and none of the Wildling’s medicines had worked. Tormund had insisted they had cleaned all the wounds when it happened but the Maester’s scepticism at this remained. 

Sansa couldn’t believe it. Wolf attack. It seemed that the only thing that could bring down a wolf of Winterfell was another wolf, well, they had always been each other’s undoings so it only seemed fitting. 

And Jon had protested. Had left it until Tormund was fearful that they wouldn’t make it, and they nearly hadn’t. In the end Tormund had tied Jon to a horse and forced him to Winterfell, knowing that they had medicine the Wildlings did not, that it was Jon’s only hope. Whether he wanted that help or not, Tormund wouldn’t just let his friend die like that when there was another way. 

And Sansa was beyond grateful for that. The thought of Jon dying without her ever knowing, it made her unbearably sad. But she would know it wouldn’t she? The way she had felt off in the months after Arya’s ship had gone down, before the letter had arrived spelling her sister’s doom. 

That loss had been enough to send Sansa into a stupor for months. Winterfell had never seemed more hostile than in her grief for her only sister. The sister she had never gotten the chance to see again, it had been brutally unfair, but Sansa had been used to unfairness by then. This fact made it no easier though. To have Arya back for a brief period, only to have her ripped in such a common way, shipwreck, was too callous. It was harder than losing Robb. Harder than losing Rickon. And harder than losing her parents. In a way she hadn’t anticipated. The loss still rippled through her years later and she thought about having to tell Jon of that loss when he woke. If he woke. 

As if reading her mind Tormund spoke, “He will wake. The little crow is a harder bastard than this. Your healers said so themselves.”

“Isn’t he your King?” Sansa chastises gently.

She had liked Tormund, and had missed him, she realizes. He was easy to talk to surprisingly. A man she somehow respected and could make her laugh, it was a rare feat. 

“Oh, all that King beyond the Wall nonsense,” Tormund chuckles, “He hates it you know. Of course he does. But yes I suppose that many of our people look at him that way strangely enough, since he isn’t wildling at all.”

Sansa is quiet at this. No, Jon is not a wildling. He doesn’t belong that far North, getting attacked by wolves. He belongs at home. With her. 

Sansa had scarcely left Jon’s room (the room she had spent a night in many a moon ago now, the chest at the end of his bed taunting her every moment of the day) in the days he had laid in bed. She slept here, refusing to let any whispers about this bother her. Having a bed brought in and standing vigil over his seemingly lifeless frame. She was told multiple times that his body just needed to recover that it was normal. But his stillness worried her and she wanted him to wake, even if it meant he would leave sooner. And leave he would, she knew this. Couldn’t afford to think otherwise. 

And at that moment, the man in question decided to open his eyes.

“I’ll take that as my cue to head out,” Tormund says and the door shuts behind him.

Sansa and Tormund had talked a lot over the last three days but had been careful about the subject of Jon. Still he seemed to understand implicitly the tension and unresolved issues that lay between the two and exited with speed. 

The maesters had said that it may take Jon days after waking up to be coherent and aware. Given the amount of medicine and pain relief they had given him. It’s why he had been under so long, his body fighting off that infection that had threatened his life. 

But Jon doesn’t seem half out of it. And de seems all too aware. 

“Sansa,” his voice is dry and hoarse, barely above a whisper but it sends a shiver down her spine regardless. All these years later and it knocks the wind out of her. 

Despite having three days to take him in she thinks she hasn’t really seen him until now. His hair is longer and tied back in a ponytail but his face is clean shaven, only the faintest traces of hair from his time unconscious. He looks older but so is she. She’s twenty six, that must make him twenty nine. Nearly thirty, mind you she’s closer to thirty than twenty as well. The thought surprises her, they are far from the children they once were. 

“You gave us all quite a scare,” She aims to keep her voice light, teasing. But it comes out a bit biting, too much like a scolding mother… a scolding wife, upon second thought. 

“ ‘m sorry,” Jon mumbles, not clear at all. 

He closes his eyes and Sansa can’t tell if he’s in pain. And she can’t tell what exactly it is he is apologizing for, showing up half dead? The wolf fight itself? Abandoning her for seven years? Ahh, she thinks, there it is. 

Jon looks at her, seeming to anticipate a verbal lashing at her tongue. But she bites down, hard. Feels blood fill her mouth, tinny with rust. And she doesn’t say anything. 

“I thought,” Jon stops, starts again, “I thought things would be fine here, Sansa. Better…” 

Sansa looks down at him now, incredulous, “Jon. What was the last thing I said to you, before you left?”

She’s fuming in truth. But he manages a response anyways.

“You asked me to forgive you,” He asks, seeming to genuinely not know and focusing on the wrong part anyways. 

“I told you the North lost their King, Jon. You. We lost you. And you never tried to rectify that. I thought maybe if I gave you time… I don’t know what I thought Jon. I know you never so much as sent a letter. You could’ve been dead. You would’ve been if you hadn’t come here, and I never would’ve known. Did you ever think Jon? Did you ever think about how that would make me feel, when I’ve lost so much,” Sansa is standing now and she feels horrid, unleashing this all on him when she is still in his sick bed. 

She had promised to be better, to give him time. To be gentle. But it’s been so long, and it’s like flames lapping at the ice, begging her to go on, forcing her to feel something for the first time in what feels like forever. 

Jon, despite his weakened state, doesn’t back down. 

“What was I supposed to do Sansa? You told the realm about my parents, I explicitly asked you not to so I thought that was a pretty clear sign that you didn’t want me around going forward. That you were content to rule the North and forget about me,” Jon says accusingly now. 

And that’s not fair. She doesn’t even know what to say to that. 

“You bent the knee Jon! You took up with the last Targaryen, because as much as you may want to pity yourself, that title is not you. You are still a Stark. Even though you betrayed us, even though you loved her! So yes, I was angry. But you should’ve stayed. Stayed in the North. Stayed with me,” Sansa all but screams.

And the last bit barely slipped in there. Echoing the words she hadn’t had the nerve to say when he left for Dragonstone once upon a time. ‘You’re abandoning your people, you’re abandoning your home, you’re abandoning me’. Stay with me.

She’s breathing heavy and he is too, she can’t believe that she has allowed herself to behave like this. The Maester will have her head for putting him at risk during recovery, getting him worked up. Hells, she should condemn herself. After all the worrying she has done for him. 

But before she can apologize he speaks again, barely a whisper.

“I never loved her Sansa, not for one moment,” It’s quiet but she hears it clearly. Barely believes it, but hears his words fine. 

“What?” She asks, mirroring his whisper, shocked more than anything. 

She sits back down by his bed, searching his face for a trick she knows she won’t find. 

“I tried, like you said. To play the game. It was stupid and I did it poorly but I tried. And then it was too much of a risk, to let you know. If she had found out… she would’ve killed you Sansa. I’m sorry,” Jon is remorseful now and she realizes that these years haven’t been easy on him either. That he has been punishing himself with this exile, not exulting in her pain but drowning in his own. 

That doesn’t make her any less angry, somehow it fuels her more. 

“And that is supposed to make it okay Jon? That you acted with noble intent? She’s been dead for years. The last seven years have not been easy Jon, we have still suffered, I have lost, and you were gone,” Sansa bites back, but with less vigour than before. 

And it must be something in her voice or her eyes that catches him, still reading her all these years later. 

“Lost?” Jon asks quietly. 

“Arya’s dead Jon. Has been for four years,” She doesn’t mean for it to come out like that, cruel and unfeeling but she seems to lose any filter on her thoughts around him, “Her ship sunk.” 

The words knock the wind out of Jon. And it’s not fair that he makes her feel bad for this. For bearing this burden alone for so long and then reacting as such, not that she can expect any different. 

“Why, why didn’t you tell me Sansa?” His voice is thick and wet, tears spilling down his cheeks. 

“And how was I supposed to do that, it’s not like I knew where you were Jon. You left, you made that choice, and now you live with the consequences,” Sansa says and stands abruptly, her own tears threatening to overcome her now. 

She breezes out of the room then, leaving Jon struggling to stay afloat.

~~~

The following weeks are some of Sansa’s best and worst as Queen. On one hand, Jon is back, too weak to return North. On the other hand, Jon is back, too weak to return North. At least Tormund makes everything a little less tense than it would be if it was just Jon and Sansa left to their own devices. It almost reminds her of those few sweet weeks after they took back Winterfell, before the missive from Daenerys arrived and when the Night King still felt far enough away to let them breathe.

After that first fight, they had both been overly nice to each other. Walking on pins and needles the whole time. Importantly, they also hadn’t been alone. To an outsider they would seem happy enough, if not a little forced, a little pinched when talking to each other directly. 

And Sansa knows that rumour has reignited. She hears whispers about her apparent wildling King, come to bring the North more stability and strength, to grow with her and forge a pack of Starks to inherit one day. 

It twists her smile into something reminiscent of Cersei Lannister. 

The fact that this thing, this thing between them, is apparently so evident to those around them, even now, but that the two of them won’t cross that line. It drives Sansa to many sleepless nights. Jon is leaving tomorrow, after weeks of navigating a field of glass shards, Sansa will breathe. 

The irony of wanting him to return home for years only to relish in his departure doesn’t miss her. She’s fully aware of her internal contradiction. 

So she watches him. And her heart aches. There is a feast. A farewell to their visitors, as is the custom. Sansa, courteous to the end. 

He looks good, she can’t deny that. The heaviness she saw in that sick bed is gone, and she thinks that maybe she was wrong, that he has healed in the North, but then he catches her eye, she sees the wall come back up and realizes that he’s just gotten better at hiding his true emotions than her. Now, there is a surprise. She had been so used to bottling everything inside and being able to read Jon plain as day that she hadn’t anticipated that of all changes. 

But while Sansa had allowed the threads of her heart to unravel and pool at her feet in the last seven years, it appears as if Jon has filled in his cracks with brick and mortar, patching himself up and hiding away the worst of it. They’ve traded places she guesses. Two sides of the same coin. 

And as she observes she sees tightness here and there. Light not quite staying in his eyes at some of Tormund’s jokes. The lines of his face pulling taut when he thinks nobody is looking. It troubles her, to know that he might be as miserable as she has been. 

She reflects on their fight as she sips at her wine and pushes food around her plate. 

The revelation about Daenerys hadn’t been something she had fully absorbed when he first said it but later in the quiet of her room, it had eaten away at her. She had always wondered: who manipulated whom? But what had stopped her? The thought that she was simply indulging in wishful thinking? Or had she really thought Jon too inept to pull off something of that caliber? No, not that, she decided. She hadn’t wanted to risk it, to risk him telling her with his own words. He had refused to answer her once, and the thought of asking again and getting confirmation had hurt too much, but now that felt stupid and petty. If she had only been able to help Jon then, things could’ve been so different. If she had only asked. 

This thought tumbles over and over in her head and the what ifs spiral until she is thinking about Arya. Jon, surprisingly, had asked her nothing else about that particular revelation. She had felt so wretched about the way she sprung it on him, the bitter resentment overcoming her sense of compassion, obviously he would hurt about that just as much as she had. But he had obviously gotten the rest of the story somewhere because she had overheard Jon quietly saying something to Tormund about his sister being dead. She had left before she found out the context but it had been enough. He wouldn’t come to her and she couldn’t blame him. 

The one thing in the last weeks that had really done Sansa’s head in was a few days in when Jon had shown up to breakfast in the cloak. The cloak she had made for him that had been in his chest. The cloak she had slept in. The whole castle knew this and she had read all their expressions easily, but she had ignored it, refusing to comment to Jon or the others. It was irrelevant now. 

(But she had allowed herself some pride when Jon continued to wear it for the rest of his stay and had even mentioned to the other wildlings that it was a cloak he had missed dearly, no other was quite so warm, quite so finely fashioned. His eyes had tried to catch hers when he said this, but she had pretended to be occupied.)

So Jon and Sansa hadn’t talked, not really. They had had one fight that she imagined they both regretted and now he would leave in the morning. There had been no mention of a return anytime in the future and her ears had been peeled for any hint of this possibility, in vain it seemed. 

Sansa was fighting sleep now. She didn’t want to turn in before Jon, wanted to take in every moment with him before his departure. She remembered too well how he looked on the brink of death and she couldn’t shake the feeling that this might be the last time she ever sees him. 

But before she has to decide whether or not she will turn in there is a slight commotion at the doors. 

And then there are a few soldiers, clearly King’s Landing men, tumbling in and there is a sudden confusion. Several of her soldiers are standing, drawing their swords, confused by this intrusion so late and unannounced. She sees Jon has stood too, angling himself in the direction of the guests. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Sansa asks in a high clear voice, wide awake now. 

One brave man steps forward, kneels down, “My apologies Your Grace. It is with the most urgency that we were sent, hoping to deliver the news before it reached you by some other means.”

Sansa’s eyes narrow but her feet seem to go out from under her, she feels slightly light headed. For some reason she feels the way she did when the letter announcing Arya’s death arrived and it makes her think she could faint, but she refuses to do that in front of all these people. Definitely not in front of Jon. 

“King Bran has passed Your Grace,” The soldier continues.

And then Sansa really is falling. Well not literally, but she feels as if the air has gone out of the room. She doesn’t know how she remains vertical but she croaks out a response, somehow.

“How?”

The soldier looks unsure in the room full of people but is also obviously not wanting to disobey a Queen, he pushes on. 

“King Bran, he was trying for some time to warg into the Dragon Queen’s last dragon, Drogon, to protect us from the ongoing threat. We did not know. He left us a letter explaining it all, that when he succeeded his body would fail. He wished the Six Kingdoms to become independent, that his aid over the last several years could provide the stability for them to do that, there is a letter…” He trails off, searching Sansa’s face.

In truth, she is largely unaware of the politics of the Six Kingdoms outside of how they concern her. Are they stable enough for independence? She is unsure. Her brother is dead! The last of her siblings, lost to her. She is the last child of Ned and Catelyn Stark, the thought is haunting. 

“We brought his remains, that was his only other request. To be buried in Winterfell’s crypts,” And for the first time Sansa recognizes the coffin the other men have behind them. 

And that brings the tears, right behind her eyes. Barely being held back. She must make it through this. 

“Gerof and Lyonel, take his body. We will move it to the crypts tomorrow. Have the letter left with him, I will read it tomorrow. Tonight I will retire,” Sansa says, picking the first guard names that pop into her head at random. 

And then she is flying across the room, moving as quick as she can while retaining an air of prestige. Ten steps and she will be out in the corridor, free. 

She hears noises behind her, the eruption from the hall and then she is in the corridor and she is running. 

Before she can get far though she hears her name.

“Sansa! Sansa wait!”

Jon. Of course, she had somehow nearly forgotten his presence in all of this. 

“Jon, don’t—” She cuts herself off, the tears falling in earnest now and her voice cracking. 

She turns towards him and he’s only steps from her now, stops when she faces him. 

And they’re both standing there, together in their misery for once. United in their pain. Sansa sniffs, tears still falling. Jon’s eyes are wet, his cheeks red and they just stare at each other. 

“Bran—” Jon starts, seems unsure of what he actually wants to say. 

“He would’ve known,” Sansa says, wiping her nose loudly and very unladylike on her sleeve, “When he became King, maybe before that. All part of the Three Eyed Raven’s plan. He took our brother. Our last brother, just to give the Kingdoms some sovereignty.”

She knows her words are ridiculous considering their own fight for their Kingdom, but she hates. She hates it all, with a sudden ferocity that seems to break free. 

She hates the Lannisters for taking her father, her mother, and Robb. She hates Ramsay for what he took from her, and for taking Rickon. She hates the sea for taking Arya and she hates this old magic for taking Bran. She hates Daenerys for taking Jon from her for so long. And then she is sobbing, the floodgates open and her vision completely obscured. 

And Jon is hugging her. Crying too, she can tell by the way he shakes. They stand there, just the two of them clinging to each other in a hopeless situation like the day she found him at Castle Black. So much changed, so much the same. His hands rub circles into her back and she cries herself out, thinking about the unfairness of it all.

Somehow they make it back to her chambers. She thinks that Jon wrapped his arms around her and led them but she’s not fully aware of herself right now, she must be in shock. 

They’re seated in front of her fire. Faces puffy and red with tears but eyes dry finally.

“He sent me a letter. Talked about coming to visit. This is what he meant, he must have sent it just before he died, it arrived just before you did and it takes a few weeks for them to get here from King’s Landing. He knew. He said goodbye in the only way he could,” Sansa says but it comes out bitter, sharp. 

“He loved us Sansa,” Jon says quietly. 

“Bran did, but he wasn’t Bran for a long time Jon,” Sansa sighs. 

And Jon is on his feet suddenly, his injuries all too obviously healed.

“Dammit Sansa! He was our brother,” Jon shouts. 

“And now he’s dead Jon. What do you want me to say? I have lost everyone in my life, I am exhausted by loss, it surrounds me. I cannot find it in myself to carry that anymore. Bran was lost to us long ago, the quicker we accept that the quicker we move on,” Sansa says, and she knows how callous it is, how dismissive of the last brother she had. 

“And Arya?” Jon throws back at her, voice still raised.

Sansa stands up, “You don’t get to throw that in my face Jon. You weren’t here. I have dealt with her loss in solitude for years. You think Bran was there for me when that happened? I have seen him once since leaving King’s Landing, before Arya was gone. He sent one letter, brief, two lines if I recall, with his condolences. As if he shouldn’t be mourning too. So, no you don’t get to come back and act like I’m reacting poorly because I am tired with grief Jon. I won’t let you.”

They’re facing each other, a few feet away and breathing heavily again. How is it that they always wind up here?

“Sansa,” Jon says through gritted teeth, “Everything I did, I did it to protect you. I don’t think you understand that. I became a kinslayer, a queenslayer. For you. To protect you. She threatened you, repeatedly. I have sacrificed Sansa, turned my back on everything I knew, everything I believed in. So, yeah I will be pissed if the one person who understands the loss I’m experiencing forces me out.”

“Oh, because you’ve always been so good at letting me in,” Sansa scoffs. 

“Littlefinger,” Jon says, eyes hard. 

And Sansa’s eyes go wide, she is infuriated now. For Jon to throw that in her face years after the fact, she apologized for not telling him about the Vale’s forces for not trusting Littlefinger enough to lay Jon’s hopes on him. Better him be hopeless and fight hard. She doesn’t want to dredge up their whole brutal history on the night they received Bran’s body. They would be here all day rehashing betrayals and lashing out for the hurt they have caused each other. It will do them no good.

“Leave Jon,” Sansa says and turns her back to him, “Whatever we once were, siblings, cousins… whatever we were, it doesn’t matter now. We’re nothing now. It’s over.”

The room is silent then yet she knows Jon is still there, she would hear him leave. 

But she doesn’t hear him move behind her so when she turns to look she isn’t expecting him to be right in her space. 

“It wasn’t over Sansa,” he says, and they’re too close. Almost chest to chest, “It still isn’t over. I’m sorry.”

And for one moment they’re looking at each other. She can count his eyelashes but before she has the chance his mouth is capturing hers. Devouring. 

The kiss is not soft, there are teeth and tongues clashing. Fighting. As wolves do. 

Jon pulls her body flush against his and moans her name into her mouth. She’s reacting on instinct. The only thought she has is more. More Jon. She clutches her hands into his shirt, willing him closer to her. All the anger has seeped out of her body and has been channeled into this kiss, this singular release. 

Somehow after what might be minutes or hours, they break apart, clutching each other with heaving chests. 

And inexplicably Sansa bursts into tears for the second time that night. 

“Jon, Jon,” She buries her face in his chest and she can tell he is both confused and concerned, “I’m sorry. I’ve been… intolerable.”

She’s blubbering. She knows this but she can’t stop. 

He pats her hair, soothing. 

“Shh, it’s okay now my love,” Jon says and she peaks out at him, surprised by the term of endearment. 

“I’ve been awful,” Sansa says. 

Jon looks at her, somehow amused, “So have I, it seems to be how things go for us. We fight. We make up.”

They stand there for a few minutes. Sansa allowing her body to take in this new state. This feeling of safety and peace. She knows there is so much they need to discuss but so much can wait. There are some things that can’t though. 

“We’re the only ones left,” She says this quietly, not wanting to believe it. 

Jon lets out a long sigh, “The last of the Starks.”

“Don’t leave. Stay, be my King” She says with a steady voice, any fear she had at the proposal gone since the kiss. The kiss that promised more, that whispered a future in her ear that she thought was out of her reach for so long. 

“Sansa, I won’t leave you now… but I can’t, Winterfell is yours. If I—”

“It is ours Jon, always,” Sansa says.

Jon lets the subject drop, changes the subject, and holds her tighter, “I would’ve come back if I had known about Arya, I swear it.” 

“I know. I’m sorry about how I’ve treated you Jon. I–I’ve been so lonely, for so long. And so sad. When you showed up here, I didn’t know how to process that. All my growing resentment came out. That wasn’t fair,” Sansa finally gets out the apology she’s been desperate to, it’s not enough but for now it will hold place. 

Jon responds, “My fault anyways.”

“Don’t do that,” Sansa grimaces.

“Do what?” Jon teases. 

Sansa just shakes her head and sways them on the spot. Sways with Jon in the glimmering moonlight. They have lost so much, both of them. But they remain, them alone. And now they are together. She has felt so lost for so long, and while she knows things are far from perfect that her and Jon have a long way to go in mending their relationship, she knows that they have tonight. And as the winds howl outside the last two Starks begin to rebuild.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah I know, I'm awful. Bran and Arya dead, Jon and Sansa pretty miserable but it felt really good to write this, so thank you so much for reading and leave a comment (even if it's to yell at me for this haha). 
> 
> Also credit to the one quote i kind of half took from the Notebook. Inspiration from this post https://ladyandtheghost.tumblr.com/post/614661845085831168/its-2020


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